


Case 35: Mr. S. Holmes' Romantic Reverse (1882)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [46]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Declarations Of Love, Denial of Feelings, Destiel - Freeform, England (Country), Happy Ending, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Rejection, Suicide Attempt, Trains, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Wales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 00:52:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16506053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: ֍ A certain Mr. S. Holmes has his romantic overtures rejected - or does he? A case that will take Holmes and Watson right across England and Wales.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ginger_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_angel/gifts).



_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I suppose that I should have foreseen this coming. Having reassured Mr. Aneurin Peters in our recent Welsh venture that my family would stand by him, we were now on our way to Wales to investigate someone who might well impair those finances. To wit one Mr. S. Holmes.

My father was born Karl Novak in Congress Poland, and had come to this country back in 1840 some three years into Queen Victoria's reign. He had achieved rapid success in business thanks primarily to his partnership with one Mr. Edward Holmes, who had the money but not the inspiration. Within just three years both he and my father had become wealthy men.

Mr. Edward Holmes had been unmarried and possessed of a sizeable estate. He had had one living sibling, a brother Edgar whom he apparently loathed for when he died in 1843 he left everything he stood possessed of to my father. Mr. Edgar Holmes did seek to contest the will but he died just two months after his sibling and before the challenge could be initiated. He had left two sons, Sheridan and George, neither of whom had evinced any interest in their uncle's estate so the matter had seemed settled. Mr. George Holmes had married but had not had any children and had died earlier this same year (1882). Mr. Sheridan Holmes' marriage had produced but one son back in 1827, a boy called William who had died the year before his uncle. Thus the original Holmes line had seemed to have died out.

Or so it had seemed until I had had a frantic visit from Bacchus last week to the effect that prior to his marriage and during his time abroad Mr. William Holmes had married a lady, an Englishwoman called Miss Agatha Sherrinford, and they had had a son called Mr. Sherrinford Holmes, the boy's mother dying in childbirth. He had been born in 1850 so was now some thirty-two years of age, and had been raised by his maternal grandparents before coming to England on his grandmother's death some five years back. Hence there was the possibility that he might himself raise a challenge to our inheriting his great-great-uncle's wealth. Such a thing would have been unlikely to succeed but the social mortification would be dreadful for both Father and Mother. Worse, she might even write a story about it!

“Very true”, Watson had said when I had explained it all to him later. “Your mother might even write a story about it!”

It was doubly annoying that his tendency to assume the worst had got him there before me. Sometimes I wondered why I still kept him around.

Oh yes. Because I.... liked him. And not solely because of the bacon.

Not _solely_ because of the bacon. There was the coffee as well!

֍

Tracking down Mr. Sherrinford Holmes proved a little more difficult than expected even given the resources at Bacchus' command (he too had realized the horrible possibility of our mother writing about it and the resources of Her Majesty's Government were fully available to us). Mr. Sherrinford Holmes was living at a place called Mundesley-on-Sea on the east coast of Norfolk but just as I was about to travel up to see him I received a report that he had for some reason decamped to Carnarvonshire, right across the country. Hence Watson and I had taken a London and North Western Railway train to the ancient city of Chester from where we had faced another long journey all the way to the fortress city of Carnarvon. 

Even with the wonders of the modern railway system this was a major trip, and Watson was not surprised when I suggested that we find somewhere in the town for the night before continuing our journey on the morrow. Besides, I knew how much he was into old buildings and I was sure I could get us into the castle once we were done. We could have got quite a bit nearer our destination by train but Watson did not need to know that, and if he did ask I would just say that the hotels here were better.

The next day we hired a carriage to take us the twenty or so miles to our destination. Watson told me that although the tiny hamlet of Porthduilleyn did not even feature on most maps things could have been so different as back at back at the start of the century it had been envisaged as the main departure port for Ireland. However the superior turnpike road to Holyhead on the Isle of Anglesey had won the island port that accolade, and several plans since to like this not-metropolis and its generous natural harbour to the railway system had all come to naught. Time, it seemed, had passed it by.

“At least it should be easy to find this gentleman”, my friend said as our cart breasted the hill and looked down onto the wide and almost empty harbour ahead of us. It was a most attractive place, made even more so by the beautiful clear blue skies that day.

“Perhaps not”, I said. “I do not know the actual address he is staying at, or for that matter if he lives in either Porthduilleyn village or just somewhere on the harbour. There are two other villages along its broad beaches so we may have to work our way through them. But we shall try the obvious first.”

We drove through Nevin and Morva Nevin, taking a sharp right turn in the latter onto a surprisingly fair-quality road that led along a narrow peninsula. Eventually the road split again, the road straight on leading to the headland visible in the distance and the one right down into Porthduilleyn village whither we went.

There was a post office even in a place this small so we went in and asked if the lady knew of a Mr. Holmes living in the area. I pointedly did not smile when the postmistress, who would have got little if any change out of sixty, simpered at me in a way that had a certain doctor shuffling his feet for no good reason, but luckily she did know of the newly-arrived English gentleman who she said was pleasant enough. He lived at Telford Cottage on the seafront which we were told was the sole yellow house.

“How come that Bacchus only became aware of him now?” Watson wondered as we drove the short distance to the cottage. 

“He came to England five years ago when his maternal grandmother, who had raised him, died”, I said. “She lived up in the West Riding of Yorkshire. Her husband died last year and her will had bequeathed her own property to the young fellow; it had to be sold and the funds transferred to a Mr. S. Holmes, which of course drew the attention of Bacchus.”

“And we still have no idea why he crossed the width of England and Wales”, Watson said. “He could hardly have gotten any further west without having crossed to Ireland!”

“That is one curious thing”, I admitted. “There seems no reason for his move; his inheritance left him comfortably off if not rich and he had no reason to quit Norfolk. I wonder what caused such a seismic shift?”

We had reached Telford Cottage which was one of a set of six identical cottages each painted a different pastel colour. We walked up the pathway through what I thought was an indifferently-maintained garden and knocked at the door. For a few moments I wondered if the owner was out but after a while we heard the sound of someone approaching. Then the door was pulled open to reveal Mr. Sherrinford Holmes.

My first impression of the man whose name I shared was, I have to say, that he looked _broken_. He was as I have said in his early thirties but looked older, his fair hair uncombed and his eyes dull as he looked curiously at us. I felt for some reason that this man had come here because he had nothing left to live for, and that thought made me shudder.

That thought was also to prove quite correct.

֍

Mr. Sherrinford Holmes looked at us curiously and I belatedly remembered that as the visitors here it was incumbent on us to introduce ourselves.

“My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, I said, “and this is Doctor John Watson. My father worked with your great-great-uncle Mr. Edward Holmes for a time some decades back and adopted his name.”

He looked at me dully and I wondered for a moment if my words were actually registering with him. Then he nodded.

“My great-grandfather's legal thing”, he said. “Yes, I was told of it. Why have you come here?”

This was going to be difficult. I really should have thought this through beforehand.

“We did not know of your existence until recently”, I said. “Despite the trouble between our families in the past, my father still wished to assist any relatives of the man who helped him make his money. He asked me to come here and see if you are all right.”

The fellow laughed hollowly.

“I have just fled across the breadth of England having been rejected by the one I loved”, he said bitterly. “I am far from 'all right', sir.”

“How can we help?” I asked.

I silently thanked Watson at this point for not acting surprised, especially considering how I usually felt when the word 'family' was uttered. Our host looked at us both uncertainly then sighed unhappily.

“I suppose a trouble shared and all that”, he said. “You might as well know the whole sorry story.”

He ushered us in, poured us all drinks and we sat down in his main room.

“My father was not a good man”, he began. “He was cruel, sadistic and – I do not use the word lightly – evil. Although it brought me into the world I feel sorry that he chanced to meet and marry my poor mother while they were both in France. She died giving birth to me as I am sure you know, and I can only thank the Lord that she was spared any further time with the rogue.”

“It was perhaps my worst fortune to grow up looking fit and athletic, which my father palpably was not. When I came of age nine years ago I came to England and looked up my maternal grandmother who was pleased to welcome he into her family. She died five years back and left me everything subject to my taking care of her widower Albert who was a sickly fellow with no money of his own. He died last year.”

“My father had by this time come to England and, true to form, expected to be supported by me in the lifestyle to which he felt entitled. My grandmother had held estates in Yorkshire and Norfolk; I sold the former and went to live on the latter. My relations with my father got even worse when he I refused to buy him a larger and better house in London; it was a doubly stressful time for me because my grandmother's daughter Patricia belatedly decided to contest the will, although I was able to defeat her in court and was even awarded costs as the judge ruled her claims totally spurious.”

“Anyway, I settled into life in Norfolk well enough. If you have tracked me as far as this remote place you must know that I lived in Mundesley-on-Sea between Cromer and Great Yarmouth, about as far across the country as one can get from here. My father wanted to come and live with me but I refused; I could see that that would likely result in me being tried for justifiable homicide one day if not murder.”

“The largest estate around Mundesley was Lord Kelling's place, Kingsbourne, and I would often walk around the place. There was a public right of way across it and one day I was cutting across it when I got caught in a sudden downpour. I decided to risk the nobleman's ire and take shelter in a nearby wood which, I knew, had a small lake in it. And it was there that I saw the most beautiful man ever to grace Earth. You know those stylised drawings they do in the magazines of the idealized Victorian male gentleman; this was the real thing.”

“He was of course mortified by my arrival on the scene, but after the sort of awkwardness one might have expected in such a situation, we fell to talking. The muscle man's name was Mr. Victor Trevor; he was steward to Lord Kelling and he was as beautiful inside as out. It was with reluctance that I left him and went back to my house that day.”

“I had always known that I preferred gentlemen to women and, of course, that sooner of later this would bring me into conflict with my father. As it turned out, it happened sooner. I am sure it was my neighbour from two doors down, an unpleasant sallow-skinned fellow called Grieve, who must have found out about Victor and sent word to my father. He came rushing up to Norfolk in order to confront me. I am not a violent man, gentlemen, but the names he called me – mortal man can only take so much.”

He took a deep breath before continuing.

“The local doctor, Hawkinge, was brilliant. He helped cover up the whole thing; my bully of a father never fully recovered from someone standing up to him for the first time in his life. He died two months later and I was not surprised when he left everything he had to Uncle George who I knew lived over in Boston. He was nearly seventy and in poor health and he asked that I go and see him. A gentle fellow, he was aware that his own time in this world was coming to an end and knew full well what my father had been like. He said that he would leave everything he had to me on two conditions; that I look after him in his last few months and that I promise to continue supporting an elderly servant who had attended him when younger. She was in her seventies and very poor, so we arranged a generous settlement that would see her right.”

“Uncle George died in February and after the funeral I went back to Norfolk. Annoyingly I had just missed Victor because he had been sent to sort out some German properties that his master had acquired and needed to sell; he speaks the language as one of his many talents. But last month he came back, I told him how I felt and.... and....”

We both looked at him expectantly.

“Nothing!” he blurted out. “He just stood there. Even a no would have been better, damnation! I turned and ran, somehow managed to pack a few things and went to the railway station to catch a train. I thought that if I put as much of England – and Wales – between me and my misery it would make me feel better. My grandmother brought me here on holiday one time, you see.”

“Did it make you feel better?” I asked tentatively. He shook his head.

“Now half of me thinks I should go back and ask him again”, he said bitterly, “and half thinks that a second rejection would kill me!”

“To be fair to Mr. Trevor you did not really receive a first rejection”, I said. “But we can spare you some of that angst. We shall go to Mundesley-on-Sea and see the gentleman for you.”

Even Watson looked at me incredulously. For all that this was the Railway Age the network was very much centred on London, and not designed for someone trying to cut all the way across the county.

“That would be a horrendous journey”, our host said.

“Watson?” I asked.

He recovered quickly from the shock of my announcement.

“It would probably be best to go back to London and then up the Great Eastern Railway”, he said. “They run expresses to Cromer although I think they go later in the day; we would probably do better to take an early train, change at Norwich then alight at North Walsham.”

I turned back to our host.

“Promise us that you will wait for our return”, I said.

He knew what I was really asking but nodded. I only hoped that he was telling the truth.

֍


	2. Chapter 2

Watson, bless the fellow, waited until we were headed back to Carnarvon before he said it.

“You are afraid that he might try to take his own life?” he asked.

“You are the doctor”, I pointed out. “How many times have you observed the frailty of the human form, or the fact that so many of the ailments that you treat are as much mental as physical if not more so? Yes that does worry me especially given the way that society still regards the act of suicide.”

“I doubt that he thinks much of society just now”, Watson said. The weather had changed markedly during our time in the cottage and a fog was rolling in from the Irish Sea. I shivered.

“I was thinking more of this Mr. Trevor”, I said. “His feelings must be weighed in this matter as well. You know how society is; for one gentleman to suddenly blurt out how much they admire and.... like another – it was bound to have come as a shock.”

Coward that I was, 'like' had not been the word starting with the twelfth letter of the alphabet that I had intended to use. And not for the first time I thought of the man sat beside me and wondered.....

No. I was foolish to even think such a thing.

֍

Despite the encroaching fog we made good time back to Carnarvon and were able to make a train to Chester that would connect with one on to London. We could spend the night in Cramer Street and then strike out for Norfolk the following day. We were both quieter even than usual, feeling the gravity of this case weighing down on us both.

֍

As Watson had said our first target the next day was the small village of North Walsham beyond Norwich. The village whither our client had fled lay some five miles away, as Mr. Sherrinford Holmes had said almost as far as one could go from Porthduilleyn without getting one's feet wet. I only hoped that we would be lucky and not find that our quarry had been sent somewhere again.

It seemed the the Gods were with us on that at least for the lady at the local post office (whom Watson did not growl at; he later claimed that he had just 'coughed') looked at me rather oddly but told me that yes, Mr. Trevor was here and had a small cottage in Sea View Lane, number twenty-three. I only hope that she was able to get whatever was making her wink so out of her eye. I offered to by Watson some pastilles for the 'cough' that he had suddenly acquired but he just glared at me for some reason. Strange.

There was a fellow working in the garden of said cottage and he stood up when our carriage pulled up. Even at a distance I could see that he cut an impressive figure; it was a warm day and he was bare-chested, his muscles rippling across a broad chest. He had sharply-cut black hair, a moustache and, rather curiously, looked just like the portrayal of Stamford in my first ever story in the 'Strand' magazine (I mention this because that drawing had been so little like my friend and several people had remarked on it to him).

“Mr. Victor Trevor?” I asked as we approached. 

He looked at us warily.

“Who might be wanting to know?” he said.

“We have come from Porthduilleyn, in Wales”, I said. “From Mr. Sherrinford Holmes.”

He very clearly attempted not to react to that and failed by a long chalk. He was visibly tense.

“How is he?” he asked.

“Not good”, I said. “Few gentlemen are when they receive that sort of reaction to their declarations of undying love.”

The tall fellow snorted but I could see that he had been affected by my choice of words.

“He is a rich man”, he said, “and I am but a servant. What could he possibly see in _me?”_

“Someone to love”, I said simply. “As the Bard himself said, love has neither rhyme nor reason. People do not get to choose whom they love or do not love. You very clearly feel something for him, yet you let him go?”

The fellow looked down at the flower-bed he had been working on.

“He sort of surprised me”, he said, visibly embarrassed. “That first time was bad enough with him blundering in on me when I was bathing in the lake; you don't exactly make a good impression when you stand up bare-arse naked in front of someone.”

I rather suspected that he had made a quite favourable impression but was wise enough not to say such.

“You did not go after him the second time?” I asked instead. He sighed.

“I went to the pub for a stiff drink or three”, he said. “Got totally bladdered – first time in my life I'd ever done that – and when I sobered up and went round to his house the next day, he'd gone. I'd lost him.”

“Yet what goes can also return”, I said. “If you do wish to have something between you then you will have to go and fetch him back.”

He looked at us both uncertainly.

“You think he might come?” he asked.

I hesitated before I said what I was going to say next.

“I rather fear”, I said slowly, “that the consequences of any further delay might be.... unpleasant.”

His brown eyes widened in shock. He clearly got what I was saying.

“Lord Kelling”, he said nervously. “He will not be happy with me taking a few days off like that.”

“If you go home and pack a few things then we will go and arrange things with him”, I said. “Although I doubt you will need that many clothes.”

He blushed fiercely at that.

֍

Kingsbourne lay just this side of the town of Cromer, so it was decided that the three of us would go there. We also passed a post-office and I took the opportunity to step in and send a telegram to Mr. Holmes to let him know matters were being sorted. Fortunately Lord Kelling was more than amenable to my request, much to Mr. Trevor's surprise.

“He is not a bad stick as bosses go”, he said, “but he does not usually give much time off.”

“I 'borrowed' you for two weeks”, I said as we reached the station, “telling him I needed you for an investigation of mine. And we can make the Cromer Express back to London which, with a bit of luck, will mean we can catch a late train up to Chester. I doubt we will make Carnarvon but you never know.”

“But what about a ticket, sir?” he asked. “It is a fair distance.”

“I have purchased you an open return”, I said, “so you can come back any time. But make sure that you sort things out within two weeks. I think that that should be, ahem, _long_ enough!”

Watson rolled his eyes at my _innuendo_ while Mr. Trevor blushed again.

֍

I had underestimated the London and North Western Railway for there was a late train all the way to Carnarvon. Watson was clearly flagging and even I was tired after our long day's travelling but Mr. Trevor was clearly desperate to go on so on we went. We reached the country town at a little after ten o'clock; I could see from his face that Mr. Trevor wished to continue but he was almost as exhausted as we were. We found a decent hotel and secured two rooms for the night. I slept like a log.

The next day dawned bright and cheerful made even more so by the arrival of bacon for breakfast. Mr. Trevor was clearly so tense that he could hardly eat but I insisted.

“It is twenty miles to Porthduilleyn”, I reminded him, “and you do not want to arrive there hungry.”

He nodded and did eat something although he smiled as he saw Watson hand me over half his bacon. I had no idea why; that was just normal.

After breakfast we went outside to find a carriage waiting. I turned to Mr. Trevor.

“This is where we part”, I said gently. “We wish you well in your endeavours. We are going to spend a few days in the town so a telegram to our hotel letting us know what has happened would be appreciated. If one of you can make it to the post office that is.”

He blushed again, thanked us both for our efforts and almost leaped up onto the carriage before hurrying off.

֍

We had an enjoyable day in the town and I got to take Watson all round the castle. It was even better when we found a small restaurant in the town which did all-day breakfasts with delicious bacon. And it was topped off when we received a telegram from Porthduilleyn that afternoon. It read simply:

'Yes!'

And Watson got to see his old castle. It was wonderful being able to do good things for someone I lo..... liked so much.

I was in so much trouble!

֍


End file.
